Steve Katz - Kissssss - A Miscellany

In the sunlight at the edge of the crowd a great hound lay kerchiefed in rayon. The snug delta-winged aircraft circled low as if this were an aerodrome of the other kind. As it left the service elevator the big hawk stretched its wings, drying them in the sun, then looked over what had come to be known as “the situation.” Alack, alas. Swift as a nude bather, he tunneled beneath the gathering to emerge by a bench six hundred feet from the faded hound. That was the hawk and that was the hound, sing fol de rol, fol de lay, fol de fol fol. As if this were an aerodrome of the other kind the snug delta-winged flying apparatus circled low. Butts of an uncertain ilk dropped from the sky like plushy mosses — sphagnum, purslane, even Irish, or like exotic bromeliads like pineapples and Spanish moss, harbingers of the coming gods. Were the gods coming? Rickety Buckets elucidated, “My enema is not your enemy, Alfred.” Excusing himself, Herman rattled over to the liberation pulpit. “Let there be drunks!” The hawk, a fallow female of the elevator-riding species, Buteo Ascensoria , recognized Herman immediately as her liege and lumbered towards him. “The hound is autistic, that one swaddled in rayon,” was how she greeted Herman, who ignored this, but then spotted the dog and rushed across the sward to dive straight out and land full-belly-down-flat on the kerchiefed flank. “Woof,” from the hound. In the creature's mind were the complete names and the contents of every meal ever eaten by every person ever to live in every apartment at 43 Crosby Street, a twelve-story high-rise with one hundred and eight units. But the poor hound had no way to express this information in the language of humans. O idiots savant, awack, awass. Circling low over the situation as if it were an aerodrome of the other kind, a snug delta-winged flying contraption kept dropping butts. “Nice butts,” said Herman. “No ifs or ands about them.” This was in the future. Today we'll hear a different story.

The effervescent Rastafarian shoe designer, Tobias I. Nix, stepped onto his balcony and looked askance. Down there the footprints of five avenging angels were palpable even through the crowd that had gathered across the turf. The surrounding folks were thick as marshmallows in a blue box, but not so opaque. Those footprints showed through like testicles in Ziploc bags. GLAD Bags. Two terrifying angels still were unaccounted for. “Alfred,” the shoe designer exclaimed, “the preparations!” The mob separated to allow the serpent, who before it arrived had been announced as a battery-powered tongue, to levitate and then penetrate the snugly slung, delta-winged airship that circled, looking for a better aerodrome. “Wheest groose!” the delta-wing exclaimed as it suffered the violation. Rickety Buckets elucidated. “Wheest is the yeast, but groose is not gross.” Margot Margolies' mother mollified the multitude. That was in the future. Now, the following:

Spicy aromas of spargic acid blew across the green. Finally, asparagus season. At this time of year the congregation turned Herman loose from his diurnal burdens so he might apostrophize, lecture, preach, or what-have-you to the acres upon miles of tender spears erecting through the sod in anticipation of sauces or vintage balsamic vinegar. Some awaited the summer with apprehension. The revolution was kinking in. Soon some shooting would begin. Why not? Wouldn't you? Aren't you one of the oppressed? You are a minority, or a female of your species, is it not? The oppression is heavy, the poverty deep, the suffering unimaginable. And isn't “the situation” deteriorating, and won't you be the one to suffer more? You and yours? Them and theirs? Rickety Buckets elucidated, “News cannot be always new, but it can be noose.” Tobias Nix felt the trouble coming, though he didn't believe in trouble, not really, not trouble. “Alfred,” he whispered plaintively, “the preparations!” Alfred was busy, chatting up the two avenging angels that remained outside the napping crowd. “We've got the money,” they said, as if they were one angel. “And you need the backing.” The sounds of war blew in from the distance. Alfred gazed at his effervescent shoe designer, Tobias I. Nix, a man who counted on him when stuff started to move, like blood on its clots. Can these avenging angels be trusted? Nix shook his head. What a bright head, big as a tuba. Maybe this was the earthquake, maybe a parade. It could be the biggest one of all time. This was overdue — for the earth to crack in two. The snug delta-winged aircraft held its position as the lawn below turned slowly on a pivot, as if it were trying to be the aerodrome of the other kind, some kind of turntable operative, something beyond the ordinary, a special kind of strip. How many were involved by now? How many dead? All of them? Was everybody happy? How many were fooling themselves? All of them, fooling all of us. All of them! All of us! Asparagus pushed up like some loopy phalloids. Why not? Butts landed on their tips. Big butts. This was in the future. Today we hear another story.

“Reggae is the past, admittedly a greater past,” Rickety Buckets elucidated. “But the past is overcooked. The past is not pasta.” In our times the trivial is typical, and the typical is not what we need. A return to beyond the boring is needed. Perhaps a nasty hawk, and a hound that once smoked Lucky Strikes, sing fol de rol, fol de lay, fol de fol fol. Victims lay in the midst, and in the sunlight survivors from the edge slowly sifted in to look for loved ones. Only loved ones had died. This is the story. If you are not loved, you will tend to live this way. A grey pall had settled on the mall, so one could hardly see the violated delta-winged aircraft circling low, over this aerodrome of the other kind. But we could smell it, and it smelled like cusps. Alfred lifted the pitiful hound onto his back and returned to Warsaw. “Without shoes?” Tobias I. Nix worried, “and no preparations.”

“What is good for the hound,” Herman said, lifting his arms in a celebration of times gone by. “Times don't go by,” Rickety Buckets countered. “It is ourselves going by and by and by. Times is a cyclical unit and we only appear to undulate on its printout like a disappearing script.” A palimpsest? That's us! Now Rickety Buckets is running for office. “Office and coffin are close,” he elucidates. “I've got the shoes, but where are the women?” Tobias I. Nix complains. Now the parade begins. Today the story is different. Now is the future. Today the story is different.

Abby builds her deck. Betsy wins the argument. Connie files the papers. Dolores masters golf. Eleanora starts a riot. Florence takes her triplets to the zoo. Gertrude blows it. Helga needs one more dog. Ida sits on the still. Jackie berates. Karin makes a go of it. Linda gives us more than something extra. Marian picks up the trombone. Nikki pumps iron. Olivia wants absolute victory. Patsy has already got the future figured out. Queenie lives from day to day. Rowena presides. Samantha is Miss Origami. Tabatha has the mind of a mechanic. Ulrika waits ’til the time is right. Vivian has perfect pitch. Wanda has perfect aim. Xenia has a perfect mind, but shyly. Yolanda always grabs the bull by the horns. Zelda collapses the contraption. Zora rubs a smudge. Yaphia pilots airships. Xaviera retools. Wilhemina emits rays. Vanna swipes whiskey. Undine divorces. Tanya edges closer. Sybil holds a flush in clubs. Rachel writes the best novel. Quinta makes the chorus work. Penny beats the bushes. Oona obsesses. Nelly unlocks the library. Maureen harbors a grudge. Lucille takes control. Kim finishes the woodwork. Janet ups the ante. Isadora installs a shower filter. Harriet designs the bridge. Gail weighs her boyfriends. Fanny makes the Supreme Court. Esther hefts the newsy's pistol. Diana ships vegetables. Corinna goes ballistic. Barbara solos Boston to Beirut. Alison finds the glitch.